Sunday, 3 June 2007

The cuckoo she's a pretty bird

The Cuckoo is a pretty bird, she sings as she flies.She bringeth good tidings, she telleth no liesShe sucketh white flowers for to keep her voice clearAnd she never sings "cuckoo" till summer draweth nearAs I once was a-walking and talking one dayI met my own true love as he came that wayThough the meeting him was pleasure, though the courting was woeFor I've found him false hearted, he'd kiss me, and then he'd go.I wish I was a scholar and could handle the pen.I'd write to my lover and to all roving menI would tell them of the grief and woe that attend on their liesI would wish them have pity on the flower, when it dies